


make the world stop

by vicepoint



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Guaranteed Gayness and No Main Character Deaths, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Superpowers, uhhhh hh h h gettin pretty fluffy now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicepoint/pseuds/vicepoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wanna experiment?” Chloe asks suddenly, leaning forward in the booth and interrupting all thoughts.</p><p>“E-Experiment?”</p><p>“With powers, dummy,” she elaborates, voice lower.</p><p>——</p><p>Something supernatural is going on in Arcadia Bay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 Prologue

**R.**

 

 **Routine.** You're not scared. You're ready. 

You can hear the electricity humming, buzzing beneath your feet, from the ground, up and up and up through wire and metal and cages.

 ** _Vibrations, your core, your fingertips—_** Do they sense it too? Doesn't look like it.

They're just standing there, still and mechanical, as you wait.

 **Routine.** So these guys can't feel it tingling. They can't feel it coursing through them. It's only you.

Good. You're ready. You're so ready.

 _ **Czzzzzt—**_ The lightbulb hisses and pops, and you're thrown into darkness.

A head turns, a glance in your direction. "The fuck was that?"

 **Routine.** "How would I know?" you answer with a shrug, voice echoing.

Your smile betrays you, as always.

 _ **Low rumbling, like movement, like thunder—**_  " _Bullshit_ ," the other voice shouts back, footsteps soon follow.

"Didn't think she was one of the electric ones," another guy says, then chuckles. "Gonna have to get gas lighting."

 **Routine.** Soon. Soon. Soon. You feel it, closer, coming.

"I don't think you need to worry about that, dude," you call out, taking a step backwards.

 _ **You can almost see it, taste it, the electricity, the smoke, time itself-**_ \- It's freedom. You're so close.

"Well, you won't either," the first voice snaps, "Not your concern. We all know who's in charge here."

 **Routine.**  You do know. You know exactly who's in charge.

The body stalks around in front of the bars and stares at you, eyes cold and beady. "I can tell you, if we spend any more cash on useless shit you guys keep breaking, Mr. Pres-"

**_Explosions—_**

**Broken.**

Freedom.

 

 

* * *

 

Chapter 1   
  
**M.**

 

Something supernatural is going on in Arcadia Bay. It doesn't take a genius to work that out.

The missing people? That can be explained sort of reasonably. Sometimes people just… go missing. The increasing crime rate? It’s a  _little_  odd, sure, since it’s a small town and all—but it’s nothing too wacky. Statistical deviations shouldn’t be so frightening. The stories of the guys in black and yellow suits, knocking on doors and snatching people off the streets? Yeah, okay.  _That’s_  strange. You’ll admit that.

But they're just stories. Stories that _Warren_ tells you, of all people.

He thinks it’s some top secret military thing.

"Like, Area 51 shit, but in Arcadia Bay, ‘cause haven’t you noticed this town’s freaky?"you think he said, while proceeding to shove a chunk of muffin in his mouth.

So you’ve noticed it’s freaky. But you grew up here, you’re back for your photography program, you haven’t written that essay that’s due tomorrow, you owe Kate a lunch date  _and_  you still have to make one very important very _late_ phone call to someone who’ll probably hang up as soon as you say anything along the lines of ‘hello, this is a voice from your past’.

Everything is relative.

"We’re teenagers, Warren. Not Mulder and Scully. And stop stealing my breakfast."

You have more important things to feel anxious about. You can afford to leave hypothetical,  _Men In Black_ -esque, government mysteries for better-equipped people to solve.

That doesn’t stop him from sending you a ton of emails trying to connect the dots, though. It’s happening in Seattle, too, apparently. ' _I’m no conspiracy guy, but-_ ' he says, sending five thousand conspiracy links from the darkest pits of the internet.

You’ve been way too tired to reply recently. And it's probably as a result of staying up until two in the morning researching 1800s photography. Or was it 1900s? Shit.

It just doesn’t go in. You read the words over and over and over until you can practically recite them without looking, but your attention always drifts. You start comparing yourself with the professionals, then the hopelessness sinks in, and _God_ , this was _so_ not your vision of what Blackwell would be like.

The naïve little voice in the back of your head whispers, "I wanted to take photos, too," and you swat the thought away like it’s a pest.

It’s true; the vast amount of theory and paper work is a little disappointing... but that’s just what you asked for when you decided you wanted to study photography. You’re grown up now, you can handle this.

The voice is still there of course, just quieter, nagging. You still want to take your own photos.

The idea of searching Arcadia Bay; wandering and exploring with your camera’s eye, looking for shots, is exciting. Kind of nostalgic. Makes you feel like a little kid again.

And you’re dying to show Mr. Jefferson some of your work. Sure, there’s a chance he’ll hate it, since his style contrasts completely with yours and you’re just an amateur but… but he’s your teacher, so he won’t be a dick. Right?

That’s usually when you realize you’ve forgotten what you were meant to be studying in the first place, and hence the endless cycle of memorization, distraction and self-doubt begins again.

So, yeah, you’ve been really tired lately.

 

So tired that when the sound of your own name pierces the air in chem class, you jolt, eyes snapping open.

You look around for a moment, bewildered, like a deer in the headlights. And _fuck._ You were totally just drifting in and out of consciousness. But fortunately (or not), there’s suddenly the familiarity of Teenage Boy Smell: that distinct desperation mixed with Axe body spray. You notice Warren’s leaning in close and whispering to you.

“Phosphorus chloride,” you parrot back, staring at Ms. Grant. She blinks twice before looking up from her notes, eyeing you with a raised brow.

“Good, Max,” she says. “Good.”  

You exhale, rubbing your eyes with your palms, pick up your pen and write the words _PHOSPHORUS CHLORIDE_ on the paper in front of you. Underline it. Circle it. Rub your eyes again. You can feel a headache coming on.

That was one near fucking miss.

You steal a glance at Warren. He gives you a coy, I-just-saved-your-life smile. You shake your head. He’s so gonna grill you later for this.

When the bell rings, it just makes your headache worse. And when Warren pokes you in the ribs and asks what class you have next, you're positive your head is going to split open.

"Photography," you say, and the groan that escapes with it isn't intended. He frowns immediately, but you just nod at his confused expression and mutter, "I know, I know, it's my favorite, blah blah blah. Just not in the mood for it today, I guess."

"Oh," he replies, looking thoughtful.

"Headache," you explain, grabbing your things off of your desk. He watches you as you toss your belongings haphazardly into your satchel. When you notice he's still staring, you shoot him a pointed  _What?_ face to mirror his own. He lifts his hands up in innocence.

"Jeez!" he says, widening his eyes. "You need to get some sleep, Max."

You sigh. "I know."

"Sorry," you add, when he doesn't say anything back. "And thanks. For back there. Phosphorus... chlorine thing."

"It's cool," he says, his expression going back to normal. "Just looking out for my fellow special agent, y'know?"

You chuckle, shaking your head. "By the way, you have to stop blowing up my inbox with that crap. If I wanted to hear about exciting news,I'd ask Juliet from my dorm."

Warren grins as you exit the classroom, suddenly more animated, "No, no, you _see **—**_ "

You snort, but listen anyway.

"Juliet, she's a journalist. She's got good gossip, and she's got the skill to frame it any way she wants. But _this_ _,_ is the search for the _truth_. We're talking government cover-ups, we're talking mysteries, we're talking aliens ** _—_** "

"We're talking _class_. In five minutes, Warren."

"Ugh," Warren groans, stopping in front of his locker. "You're boring."

"Headache, remember? Can't process."

"Whatever. I bet you it's the aliens," he says, deadly serious, pointing to your head.

You roll your eyes. "Of course."

 

When you say goodbye and head towards Mr. Jefferson's class, you can hear Warren say something along the lines of _'Try not to fall asleep this time!_ '.

You scrunch up your nose at him, trying to express the message that that was not in the slightest bit funny. But when class starts and you sit at your desk - after trying to avoid direct eye contact with Victoria, taking halfhearted notes, and giving Kate the occasional knowing smile - you find your eyes are closed.

Which is annoying, because you didn't notice closing them. 

So you open them again. And sure enough, you're still awake, in class, as usual.

But then it happens again. Blackness. Your head nodding forwards without your consent.

You shake yourself out of it.

Jesus, Max, what is wrong with you? You weren't... you weren't going to fall asleep again... you have to...

You hear the crash of something on your desk hitting the ground, and your eyes snap open again. _So clumsy **—**_

But, wait. It's still dark.

You... you just opened your eyes, but ** _—_**

Then there's another crash, and this time it's much louder, deafening. Your body lurches, shocked into movement, and holy _shit._

Lightning. Across the sky. The _sky_. The dark, wide sky, frothing with storm clouds above your head. You're suddenly aware of your surroundings, eyes adjusting to the dark, and the noise is so fucking  _loud_. The hissing of rain, the rumbling of thunder, the wind, piercing _._

And then the other senses return to you too, of course. It's real. It's real; the taste of something metallic in your mouth, the smell of the dirt smeared over your face, the feeling of soaked clothes clinging to your skin. It's disgusting but it's real. You push yourself up off of the ground and look around, try to get your bearings.

You stumble a little when you rise to your feet, blinking the rain out of your eyes. Trees tower and sway above you, dizzying. 

This looks like a forest. _The_ forest. The forest that neighbors the path to the lighthouse. Jeez, you haven't been there in... in years...

You can almost remember the trek from your childhood, so you turn around, lifting your arm up to protect your eyes from the downpour. You'll be safe if you can make it there. You hope. Jesus, how the hell did this even ** _—_**

" _Fuck_!"

You gasp when lightning strikes something that sounds far too nearby. It cracks like a whip, then you hear more crashing — probably a tree collapsing. You have to keep going.

Lightning hits again. You keep pushing, keep moving, despite the wind picking up and the electricity in the air  ** _—_ a**nd it strikes again, and again, and _again_ — the storm is intensifying, you're certain of that. But then when you reach the clearing, you finally see.

The lighthouse, glowing red.

The lightning, _burning_ red.

It's like walking in on some satanic ritual, seeing the red lightning repeatedly strike the lighthouse like that. You're frozen stock-still, terrified.

That's when the ground starts shaking, and with another strike, the beacon explodes. Red-stained glass shatters and flies through the air, and you're screaming now—you would _try_ and jump backwards if you _could_ , but you're in the air before you know it.

The force of the explosion knocks you off of your feet and out cold.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> superpowers don't become relevant until the next chapter, but they are sorta inspired by the lore from the games inFAMOUS 1 & 2*. Note: you don't have to know Anything about those games to understand this fic.
> 
> * if you are an inFAMOUS: Second Son/First Light fan looking for a direct crossover/AU fic, i did notice a while ago that there's a good oneshot you can find [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4350938)!


	2. Chapter 2

**C.**

 

When you're thirteen years old, you press the side of your face against your father's chest, listening to the steady and stable beating of his heart. He's listening to a news report, and the noise drifts from the TV in the same nonchalant fashion as it did from the radio in your parents' car - just numbers; just words.

'Shocking', 'Unacceptable', 'Tragedy'.

It's been repeating throughout the day.

But it doesn't hit you that something really, really terrible has happened until your dad squeezes your arm and pulls you closer to him. Your mom walks in then, tutting, whispering under her breath something about gun control.

"Pure evil," your dad whispers under his breath.

You believe him. You don't understand why anyone would want to hurt someone like that.

 

When you're fifteen years old, you press the side of your face against your bedroom door, listening to Joyce's shrill voice. She tries in vain to keep quiet - but it doesn't matter, because if he wanted, David could wake up the whole neighborhood.

And it's funny, because Joyce's arguments with your dad somehow always ended in forgiveness and smiles - they'd joke and laugh about it the next morning.

But by funny, you mean horrendous, because with David there's always a door slammed, and with David there's always awkward silence at the breakfast table.

"I don't like them in my house, David!" Joyce is saying, and you know what she's talking about - because you remember grazing the boxes when David moved in; you remember the hunting trophies, the way he glared when he caught you peeking.

"I'm protecting myself," he responds, and you think ' _What from?_ ', but then he says "I'm protecting my family," and the emphasis on _my_ has you backing away from the door quickly. 

 

When you're eighteen years old, you press the side of your face against Rachel's neck as she throws herself over you, listening to her bubbly and drunken laughter. She's falling over the place and you're shushing her - reminding her that she is _not_ , in fact, meant to be here - but she just sways on her feet and leans back from the hug, giggling.

"Mmm okay. Bed time." She starts stumbling past the staircase.

"No, no," you grab her shoulder and spin her around, "Not that way. Bed time in the bed _room_."

"Oh. Right," she says, and she's laughing again. "Not gonna sleep in the garage."

"No," you agree, grinning, "you're not."

"Wha's in there anyway?" she asks, slurring, as you give her a helpful shove up the stairs.

"Boring stuff. Tools. The dryer. Guns 'n shit," you reply casually, trying to focus more on getting Rachel past your bedroom door without waking up your mom.

"What?" Rachel whispers loudly.

"Step-dick," you reply, and then you see realization flicker across Rachel's face.

"Gosh, don't you- don't you just think that's so stereotypical? Fuckin' fascist America," she's rambling now as you close the door, perching on the end of your mattress, "It's shitty sometimes. Just like him."

She pauses just to laugh at herself, then continues.

"You gotta be responsible with that shit. But... but sometimes the risks, the  _danger—_ I think that's what people get off on, y'know, like there's something romantic 'bout that freedom, but when it gets out of control..."

She keeps going on and on, telling you about her thoughts on romance and violence and America _—_ the differences between Californian and Oregon culture  _—_ telling you she wants to go South again someday, and you can take her there, right? If you wanted, you could drive through the Mojave. Together. Alone. No cellphones, no parents, no boys. Just you, the stars, and the stretch of the open road.

She sounds like she's heard that fucking Lana Del Rey album one too many times, but you could probably listen to her spill her hopeful, conflicting thoughts all night.

 

When you're nineteen years old, you press the side of your face against the window, savoring the cool and listening to the low hum of your truck's engine. You're parked outside in Blackwell's parking lot, alone, because your dad's gone, Rachel's gone, everybody's gone. 

You're hurt. You've been hurt so many _goddamn_  times. You don't understand why you've been hurt so much, but you have been, and it fucking sucks.

The cigarette between your fingers sparks alight.

You're not scared, but the thing's shaking in your hand, so maybe you're just not being honest with yourself. You squeeze your eyes shut. _So fucking conflicted._

Smoke billows in the cabin, gray tendrils in the air around you, as you watch a few hipster-ish students mill around campus. Just looking at them - carefree and studious - pisses you off.

But you can't lose your cool today, not now, so you stop thinking about that and start thinking about how this is gonna go down.

Going in without a plan maybe isn't the best idea, but stressing out over creating one is a _worse_ idea, so you shrug it off.

You just need to stand your ground and stay strong. Stay calm. Stay _cool_.

This is for Rachel. _This is for Rachel._

Rachel is gone. 

Rachel is gone, and it sucks, and you're hurt, and it makes sense why someone would want someone else to feel the same way, because the feeling is so fucking lonely.

You open the door, discarding the cigarette and stamping it out underneath your boot, letting the smoke from the truck escape up into the sky.

But you don't need a _gun_ to protect yourself.

 

* * *

 

**M.**

 

_Whoa **—**_

You jerk upright, or awake, or _something —_ the drone of Mr. Jefferson's lecture-voice bringing you back to reality.

"Alfred Hitchcock famously called film, 'little pieces of time'..."

You shudder, then swiftly turn around to scope out the area.

The clock is ticking, Victoria is giving you a weird look, and Mr. Jefferson is talking about a concept which you're sure you haven't revised before, so yep, this is _definitely_ real.

You take a couple of deep breaths, try and allow your heartbeat some time to slow down. Attempting to process what just happened proves to be to no avail. You're still taken aback by how surreal that ** _—_** that _nightmare_ was.

Great. A nightmare during class. How normal. Just what you needed. Boy, today has been _great_ so far.

"Max?" Mr. Jefferson's looking straight at you. You freeze under his gaze.

Oh. Right. He asked a question. Of course he did. Could this day get any better?

"Um," you start shakily, "I'm sorry, I ** _—_** "

You're in the middle of making up another lame excuse when suddenly your headache comes back full-force, like a fucking train slamming into you. In pain, you immediately grasp your head in your hands, but it doesn't stop the pounding sensation.

"Uh, Max?" Jefferson repeats, but without the grating quality to his voice.

"Ah, sore head," you say, and then you realize that that probably sounds like a way lamer excuse than any hypothetical one you could've created.

You have a slight feeling he'll be a dick about this, but surprisingly, he buys it.

"Well, class is over in," he pauses, glancing at his watch, "Two minutes. So just sit tight. Anyways, Victoria, how about you?"

Kate shoots you a worried glance. You catch Victoria looking at you too, actually - but as soon as she notices your gaze, her eyes dart back to Mr. Jefferson. She has a smile on her face when she spits out a perfectly practiced response.

You lean back in your chair, rubbing your forehead with your fingertips, waiting for the bell to excuse you. You leap out of your seat far too quickly when it finally does, and shit, _headrush._

You should get to the bathroom, go splash water on your face or something - but Mr Jefferson's voice slices through the air, interrupting your thoughts.

"Remember, Max. Everyday Heroes submission. _Soon_."

Oh, shit.

You'd totally forgotten about that. You haven't even had the _chance_ to go out and get some scenic shots yet, never mind submit an entry for a contest...

In the past few weeks you've only taken a few random candids of Dana and Kate, along with some selfies. Decent shots, ish, but nothing entry-worthy.

"I'll let you off the hook for today, but please don't wait too much longer," Mr. Jefferson says, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God for deadline extensions.

 

The walk to the restroom is brisk and hurried; you narrowly avoid bumping into Victoria's followers, wince at the sight of jocks shoving their next victim against the lockers.

Sometimes this place feels like a fucking zoo.

When you finally make it through the door, you end up collapsing against the sink, breathing in deeply. The air isn't as fresh as you'd like it to be; the smell of bleach and disinfectant fills your nose. Jesus, you need painkillers. But water will have to do.

You frown back at your reflection in the mirror, your face framed in someone's graffiti. It feels like the universe is taunting you today. Falling asleep in class - _twice_ \- getting called on by teachers, freak headaches...

You turn on the faucet and run your hands under it, before dabbing your face and neck with the water. You end up drinking some of it too, absently wondering, _wait, is this even safe?_

Oh well. Too late now. Who knows with this place.

As you wipe your face dry with the sleeve of your hoodie, you catch something in the corner of your vision. Your eyes follow the movement of something blue, fluttering, fleeting. You find your body turning against your own will, the shape luring you in as it floats down into the corner of the room, _is that **—**_

It is.

It's a bright blue butterfly, wings twitching delicately, looking far too beautiful for a grubby bathroom like this.

It's instinctual when you start pulling your camera out of your bag; there's something primal inside of you telling you that you just _need_ to capture it. It's almost childlike, needing to catch the pretty bug so you can have it all to yourself - but still. It feels special, somewhat. Significant.

The butterfly settles on the edge of a bucket, its azure markings contrasting completely against the dark corner of the room.

 _And at least this way_ , you think as you crouch down to the floor, _y_ _ou'll cause no harm._

The shot is taken with a click and a whir, then you feel the instant film fall into your hands. The butterfly dances a little around the rim of the bucket, flapping its wings almost proudly. You feel silly for wanting to thank the butterfly for its time, but you still grin stupidly and whisper it anyway.

Then the door opens, the whooshing noise suddenly and abruptly wiping the smile off your face. You return your camera back to its assigned place in your bag, tucking it away like you're tucking it into bed. And _okaaay, up on your feet, Max._ You don't want someone walking in on you crouched on the bathroom tiles.

Just as you head back around to exit the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of who's entered the room. Or, the back of the person who's entered the room. Your steps falter, and when the boy spins around, you find yourself darting behind the last stall again.

He starts whispering to himself then, confirming your suspicions of who exactly the person might be. 

"It's cool, Nathan, don't stress... You're okay, bro."

You hold your breath. Nathan Prescott.

You've seen him hanging around Victoria occasionally, sometimes floating between jocks and Vortex Club members, but you don't know where he disappears off to the rest of the time. He'd almost be non-existent to you if it weren't for his rich kid reputation preceding him. You've heard a bunch of stories about his father...

You've never spoken to him before, and you're not sure that he'd let you even if you tried.

"Just count to three," he mutters, and you wince, uncertain of what to do. The situation feels just about as comfortable as biting down hard on a towel.

"Don't be scared. You _own_ this school. If I wanted, I could blow it up! You're the boss."

The door clicks again. You peek around the edge briefly to see if he's left yet, but you see a flash of blue, and _shit_ , nope _._

Someone else is here now. Your heart's racing. And it's dumb, because you have every right to be here, you could totally just walk around the corner, wave them ' _hey_ ' and leave the room. If you weren't fucking riddled with anxiety.

"So what do you want?" Nathan asks, and you look up to the ceiling. _Just wait. Count the cracks. Maybe the encounter will blow over._

"I hope you checked the perimeter," the other person says, voice higher and clearer than Nathan's mumbling. "As my step-ass would say," she adds, quieter.

You can hear her pushing open the stall doors, looking for anyone intruding on this weirdly organized and apparent meeting. You shiver when she hesitates near the final stall.

"Now," she says, and you exhale. "Let's talk bidness."

"I got nothing for you," Nathan spits.

A snort. "Really? I think you're wrong."

You really don't want to be here right now.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Nathan hisses.

"You got some explaining to do," the voice continues. You peer around the corner again and catch a glimpse of Nathan hunched over the sink, a girl with bright blue hair all up in his face. You haven't seen her around Blackwell before.

You swallow the dry lump in your throat.

"Get away from me, bitch." Nathan twists his head around, probably shooting the girl one of his _I could ruin your whole life with just one phone-call_  looks. She doesn't seem scared though, you see her mouth twist into a snarl before she shoves at Nathan's shoulders. " _You **—**_ "

"Have _answers_ ," she spits as Nathan stumbles back a few steps. She's too focused on Nathan to see you standing there, transfixed.

"Don't _touch_ me ** _—_** " 

"So _answer_!"

Nathan's spinning around, pulling something out of his jacket before you even have the chance to blink-

"Don't _ever_  tell me what to do!"

It all happens so fast. The girl's eyes widen, and there's something familiar about the blue in them; you freeze, staring at her face, trying to put the pieces together — but then you see what she saw, and your eyes widen too. _Gun, gun, gun **—**_

Your back slams against the stall as you hide again, but the others can't hear, since they're causing a ruckus of their own. 

"Nathan **—"**

"Shut up! Shut up!"

"Don't do this ** _—_** "

"Or _what_?"

"I don't want to ** _—_** "

"I don't care!" Nathan shouts, and you hear the noise of a body slamming against the wall. The girl hisses.

"You _fucker_!"

She's going to get shot. You know it. She's going to get shot and you're hiding behind a bathroom stall nearly pissing yourself. She's going to die and you're not gonna be able to do anything about it. You hear the shift of material, the noise that makes you think, _yep, that's it, Nathan's aiming right between her eyes now, her brains are gonna get blown out in 3, 2, 1._

There's a strange sound you can't identify, but it's quickly drowned out by the metallic clattering of the gun hitting the floor. It skids along the tiles, smacking against the wall with a bang.

You squeeze your eyes shut, smelling something smokey, fucking certain that the gun just went off and somebody's dead at the other side of the room **_—_** but amidst your panic you hear Nathan crying out in pain.

"Fuck!" he shouts. "Oh what the _fuck_!"

"I told you ** _—_** I ** _—_** " You hear the girl speak, and you can't help but edge around the corner again, jaw slack with shock. You see Nathan on the floor, clutching himself.

"What the fuck did ** _—_** You did not just ** _—_** I'm going to fucking kill you, freak!" he yells, and your eyes dart up towards the girl. She's looking down at Nathan, her expression unreadable.

_What the fuck just happened?_

The girl looks between Nathan and her hands, as though she's not entirely sure either. You try look at her face again, but she scowls and turns away from Nathan, pulling her arms in towards herself, hissing, "fuck, _fuck_."

She throws a glance towards Nathan over her shoulder, her voice wavering as she says, "I'm not fucking done with you."

Nathan's getting up onto his feet now, and you're thinking it's a fucking miracle they haven't seen you yet, staring, petrified. The girl turns away sharply and shoves open the door when she notices Nathan rising.

"Get back here!" he calls, stumbling over his feet. He grabs the gun before he leaves.

 

The door clicks closed again and all you're left with is sweat on your palms, a butterfly photo, and the lingering smell of smoke.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot twist: the girl didn't get shot!!! hire me to write your WLW tv shows


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long chapter! sorry for the wait.

 

**C.**

 

Instincts take over. You can always count on those when you can't count on yourself.  

You bolt through the hallways, students blurring as you run past. You hope it's so quick that they don't notice—but Nathan is screaming behind you, so it's unlikely.

The realization that you really fucked up this time makes you careless, too. You narrowly avoid crashing right into the front door before remembering that, generally, doors have to be open for you to pass through—but then you pause.

Well.  

 _Really_ , they don't.  

But Jesus, what you just did was fucking idiotic _—_ you're _not_ flaunting this... _this,_ anymore. You'd think you haven't been dealing with this shit for a while now. Amateur. You're such a _—_  

" _Bitch!"_  

Nathan's voice kick-starts you into motion. You immediately shove your way through the door, like a normal human being, and run.  

You're not thinking, you're not thinking; your truck's to the right but you turned left, and all you can see is the look on Nathan's face when he was launched onto the floor— _petrified_ , _monster_ , **_monster_** —so you just run faster and faster until there's no noise, there's no fear.  

You stumble over your feet a little as you turn a corner, vaulting over one of the brick walls behind Blackwell, keeping up your pace even though you must've lost him by now. It takes you until you're in the forest somewhere north of the Academy before you finally look over your shoulder and determine that he's gone for sure.  

You double over, wheezing and choking on air and nerves, then you rest your hands on your knees and try to breathe. Try and breathe; breathe even though it feels like wet grass in your mouth, and air-freshener scents really fucking are false advertising when they call that sweet scent _forest pine_ , because _this_ is that, and _this_ is choking you _—_ this is the smell you smell right before you collapse and die.

...And you're lost.

But you slowly rise again, listening for the bird-calls and whatever else that'll get you back in touch with nature again, because processing this shit will be a lot easier when you calm down. You place your hands on your hips and squint at your surroundings before that stupid, ugly, desperate thought that's been sitting in your stomach returns to you again. _You really could've killed him back there._   

And then:

 _...Would it have been better that way?_  

You look out into nowhere; that deep dark expanse of nothing between the treetops and the forest floor, willing the answer to your question to be another one of the secrets that Arcadia Bay tucks away and hides in places where people don't look.  

But the only response except your heart beating in your throat is silence, so rational thoughts leak back into your mind like slow, sticky tar.

Of course it wouldn't be better that way. You'd get found out. You'd have to run away if you didn't want to get shot down, or worse, taken—and you're not a murderer. Nathan's fucked up, but he doesn't deserve to die.  

You try and ignore what could've happened so easily – the fact you were so close, if you'd used a little more strength; a flick of the wrist; different angling; all variables that you huff and exhale and definitely don't torture yourself over.

And then you go.

 

* * *

 

 

**M.**

 

Warren is… persistent.

You keep glancing down at your phone as you walk across campus—it's half a nervous tick and half annoyance that Warren still insisted you came to meet him despite your ' _kinda busy_ ' text.

You know he'll eat this shit up, it's just—you don't even understand today's events yet, so broadcasting this already probably isn't the best idea. But you need to make sense of these strange things, because adding together they just seem to give... nothing. Which can't be true.

You suddenly see him standing there, right where he said he'd be – _by my new wheels –_ as you walk down the steps to the parking lot, so there's no backing out now. You pretend you don't notice the way he perks up at the sight of you and then quickly looks away again, feigning nonchalance awfully.  

Each step you take closer to him, you think of the different ways this conversation could go. It's obvious how you're going to initiate it—you'll say to him, "Warren, you will not believe what happened to me today", but he'll listen, and he will believe you. It's what comes after.

It's what this means, all of it—the headaches, the nightmare in the daytime, the bathroom and the gun and the girl—

 

she comes out of nowhere.

Literally, nowhere.

Warren's shouting your name from across the lot, then a more panicked, "Are you okay?", but you don't even know what's going on, you just sense the absence of ground underneath your feet and smoke in your eyes. Then another voice, sharper, closer, more familiar, swearing like a sailor. And finally the stinging in your elbows.

You grit your teeth against the sudden, childlike pain; reminiscent of skating accidents and telling your mom that the pain's only a six on the scale.

"Oh fuck," she says, and all you can make out through blurry vision are her legs, pacing back and forth, boots scuffing against asphalt.  

"Max!" Warren shouts again, and you roll up your sleeves, pushing yourself off of the ground just in time to see him jogging in your direction.  

"Mother _fucking_ shit fuck," the girl says again, eloquent as ever – no apology, only panic. Before you can get a word out, Warren's arms are around you, pulling you up onto your feet.

"I'm fine," you say, swatting gently at his hands, "seriously."

"You're bleeding." The girl says it bluntly, and you notice it then, the cherry-red smeared down your arms. Warren's on the offensive instantaneously.  

"Yeah, no thanks to _you_ —"

"It was an accident!"

"You body-slammed her!"

"I didn't fuckin' mean to, it's not like I went out of my way to—" She stops when you look up from your injuries.

You meet her eyes, blue, blue, butterfly-blue, like her hair (holy shit, her _hair_ )—like paint slathered on dressers that dead fathers built, like loneliness, like abandonment, like... her.  

You're just standing there, stupefied and bleeding, so she gets to the point before you do.

"Max?"

Your "Chloe?" sounds weaker, somehow. Somewhere in the background, Warren's asking what the fuck's going on. You just look at each other, stare right back at her, and everything starts to make sense, everything starts falling into place, and—and then it makes a little less sense, but it's still _something_ , and you didn't have something before—

"Max, you know her?" Warren asks, looking between the two of you uncomfortably. Chloe answers for you, swallowing thickly, and something drops in your stomach.

"Well, shit. She used to."

 

* * *

 

The road's unforgiving and the truck seems to catch on every dent and pothole. Thin frame shaking, the tin vibrating lightly against your fingers. You lift your hand away from the door and gracelessly shift in your seat, an awkward silence looming, patient. You try and talk.

"You didn’t have to—"

"Yeah I did," Chloe interrupts you. You close your mouth again as Chloe tightens her grip on the steering wheel.  

Your eyes flit between the graffiti scrawled on the truck's interior, the metronomic movements of the bobble-head on the dashboard, and _Chloe_ —it's all way too much, overpowering, like the stench of cigarettes that hangs in the air. You feel like choking.

You twist your body around and try not to glance at Chloe again – fearful that you'll be shot with a glare, or a question, or _something_ – but Chloe's not looking at you. Pointedly so. She's not firing any shots. Sure, she's not holding out an olive branch either, but for now she's not grilling you. She's just staring forward, eyes on the road, expression blank and seemingly frozen.  

It's strange how this can put you at ease and discomfort you at the same time.  

After a moment, Chloe exhales, then slumps back in the seat, letting one hand drop.

"I mean, I wasn't gonna leave you bleeding out in a parking lot," she continues, a certain edge to her voice, "I told you, I got supplies back home."

You look down at the brown-red scratches, mumbling. "I wasn't really bleeding out..."

"Yeah, well, bloodied," Chloe says. She narrows her eyes. "You weren't planning on just running off, were you?"

And there it is.  

The bitterness in her tone makes you shrink, guilty – knowing that if you attempted to break the ice like strangers do, it wouldn't be any more effective than chipping a glacier with a toothpick – but still... You wish this was easier.

You wish you could just slot yourself back into her life like you never left in the first place. You want to grin, laugh, sigh in relief at the familiarity of it all. The familiarity of _her_. She's still taller than you, she still looks ready to start a riot at any moment, her eyes are still that piercing blue that makes your stomach do weird twisting things. It's natural, it's childhood, it's slumber parties and backyard camping and cake baking and tree climbing—

But it's just not fair.

You don't have the right, and she's obviously mad. There's no point in dancing around this.

"Sorry," you say.  

You're not sure if Chloe understands what you're getting at. She looks at you, a little wide-eyed, then sighs.  

"For everything. Back when—"

"Don't." Chloe cuts you off. "Another time, yeah?" she says, softer.

You exhale. "Sure."

Chloe picks up on your tension and gives you a gentle shove, playful but uncertain, and you feel like it's Chloe's way of saying she won't bite, but you're not sure. "Let's just get you fixed up."

 

* * *

 

The changes in Chloe's house are less significant than the changes in Chloe, but you still note them, memories resurfacing and fizzling with each difference. Like the way that drawer still jams when Chloe yanks it open, raking for Band-Aids that aren't dinosaur-themed anymore. Or the way that the house would smell exactly the same as it did five years ago if it weren't for all the smoke.

"So," Chloe says, the sudden slam of the cabinet door bringing you back to reality. "Blackwell, huh?"

"Yeah," you say after a moment, leaning against the wall. "I just started recently."

Chloe doesn't react, still staring into the cupboard, and the bathroom is too dark to determine her facial expression.

"I thought it would be cool to come back to my hometown," you add.

Chloe snorts then. "Yeah. Okay."

"No, seriously," you say, your voice pitching up defensively. "I really missed—"

Your sentence catches in your throat somewhere, and you stop yourself. Careful. Chloe looks over her shoulder, bemused.

"Lots of things about here."

She sniffs then turns around again, starting to look in the cupboard beneath the sink. You don't know exactly what it is she's looking for, but she keeps frowning like this is all some big inconvenience for her. Which doesn't seem right, considering she was the one who bumped into you in the parking lot, and she was the one who practically told you to come to her house.  

"You know, I would've tracked you down," you say. Chloe freezes, and you swallow. You're telling the truth, you think.

"I'm glad I got the chance to come back. I wanted to contact you, but, I don't know... I was kinda—"

"Didn't I say another time?" The harshness in Chloe's voice is back, but it just sounds like the way she was when she was thirteen years old and trying to stand up to bullies in the grade above you. Not as threatening as it needs to be to make them back down.

"Yeah, but I wanted you to know, now. I know it doesn't make up for anything, and—and weird shit's been happening here, so I kept losing track of time, but... I was gonna find you and apologize. That's all."

"Somehow I doubt it," Chloe says, her tone more flat than biting. You don't know what else to say, and maybe she's right—maybe this isn't the right time, maybe you are just being an asshole. Apologies won’t fix this. You stand there, awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

"What are you studying?" Chloe asks, suddenly. It throws you off a little.

"Um," you start. "Well, I mean, a bunch of things—but like, I'm specializing in photography. There's a really good photography program at Blackwell."

Chloe meets your eyes, then holds your gaze for a couple of seconds before looking away again.

"Good," she says, kind of quietly. She clears her throat. "Can you turn on the lights?"

You don't question why she's been looking in the cupboard for so long with the lights turned off, you just flick the switch.

"Can't fuckin' find antiseptic or—or iodine or whatever the fuck," she mutters, knocking over a bunch of bottles underneath the basin rather noisily. She stands up abruptly. "Okay, I'll be right back."

"Keep looking in the drawers for bandages or some shit," she adds, leaving the room.

You nod your head then get busy, skimming past scissors and old lipgloss, painkillers and... You look closer at the label of a bottle. Anti-depressants, you think. Hm. You pause at some aftershave too, wondering if maybe Joyce found a new man after William passed.  

… Or maybe Chloe did. You frown a little, still looking for the adhesive bandages, mind occupied.

You never could imagine Chloe growing out of her sacred _boys have cooties_ phase. You're not sure why that idea of it bothers you so much. It's not like it affects you in any way, it'd just be the same as the other changes Chloe's went through. You guess.  

 

You jump when Chloe enters the room again, startled by her tendency to storm into places. She has a bottle of vodka in her hand.

"Uh—"

She breaks out in a mischievous grin at your reaction.

"Oh, you wish."  

You chuckle back lightly, _you actually don't wish_ , but it's nice to see Chloe smiling again. She takes the bandages from your hands, then gestures for you to sit against the dresser. You roll up your sleeves a bit further.

She's pouring the alcohol on some tissue when you ask, "Do you remember the, uh, the accident? With the—"

"The wine?" Chloe replies, raising her eyebrows. She gives a sideways smile. "The stain's still there."

"Serious?"

"Hella serious," she beams, starting to dab at your wounds. "That shit's never coming out."

You grit your teeth through the sting. "Wowser."  

She looks at you then laughs again.

The smell of alcohol is really strong in the air, but it's bearable. After you stick the last bandage on, there's this pause where neither of you really know what to do, but then Chloe quirks an eyebrow.

"Your sweater's kinda gross, borrow one of mine."

You barely get the chance to look down at your rolled-up sleeves, stained with dirt and dried blood, before Chloe's tearing out of the room again. You follow sheepishly.

 

You're a little stunned when you see the changes in Chloe's room, but you really shouldn't be. It fits. It fits her, her personality, explosive and brash. _Slightly_ intimidating, but charming, fascinating, just like Chloe. She stashes the vodka bottle under her mattress somewhere, which you briefly wince at, before you turn your attention back to the walls, covered in black-marker scrawls and... interesting posters.  

You're reading her graffiti, like rebellious note-to-selfs, when she tosses a black hoodie over to you.

"Thanks."  

You peel off your _kinda gross_ sweater and hang it over Chloe's desk chair, then pull the other one over your head, mussing up your hair and breathing in the fresh cotton smell. Fresh cotton and smoke, anyway, which seems to be a permanent smell following Chloe now. Surprisingly, it's not stale – so it's not intolerable.

When you turn around again, Chloe's on the bed, smoking. A joint. That you didn't notice her lighting. Or producing.

"Kinda baggy," Chloe says, nodding at the sweater, thinking you're looking at her weirdly because of the clothes and not the drugs.

"Oh." You look down at yourself. "It's cool," you then add, brushing it with your hand, "Oversized is cute."  

Chloe bites down on the joint.  

You slip your hands into the hoodie's pocket, pulling out various receipts, candy wrappers—you sit them down on one of the dressers in Chloe's room. Then your curiosity gets the better of you; your eyes wander from different objects cluttering the surface, the snow globe, old sticky notes... postcards.

"Rachel Amber," you say out loud.

Chloe's beside you in an instant, just like earlier – appearing out of nowhere, moving faster than what seems humanly possible.

"Give me that," she says, but she takes it out of your hands, not actually letting you do what she says.

"Sorry!" you squeak, stepping back a little.  

You wait a beat. Two.

You cringe inwardly. _Great fucking job, Max._ Your nosiness tearing rifts in relationships, yet again.

"No, it's—" Chloe says finally, rubbing her eyes. She stubs out the joint on the dresser. "It's fine."

"I, um..." You trail off. "I recognize that name, do they... is that a Blackwell student?"  

"No," Chloe starts. Then she blinks a few times. "I mean, fuck, yes. Yes she is."

She lets out a long-suffering sigh and wanders back over to her bed again, before flopping down on the sheets and closing her eyes.

"She's not there right now."

Your brain processes things slowly but surely. Conversations with Warren and posters on noticeboards flash through your mind. You gasp when it hits you.

"She's missing," you breathe. Chloe opens one eye. "I'm... sorry."

"Whatever," Chloe mutters.

"I didn't know..."

"Well, why would you?"  

She's doing that thing again. The thing where she deflects; snippy remarks, sarcastic comments. It's self-defense, you know that, but you still feel stung.

"Were you guys... close?"  

"We _are_ close. Present-tense. She's out there, somewhere, I know it."  

"Okay." You walk over to the bed and join her, sitting down cautiously.

"She's my..." she meets your eyes, watchful. "Best friend."

...Huh. You nod, slowly.

"I'm glad you had someone there for you... while I was gone."

It's the truth. You remember in Seattle, so many times—just thinking of searching her up on Facebook, picking up the phone and dialling her—being too nervous. Wussing out. Hoping that she found someone who could be a better friend. Simultaneously scared to find out the truth.

"Well, she's gone now too, so, y'know," Chloe says with a bitter smile, "Shit's not all fuckin' sunshine and rainbows."

"We'll find her." You don't know what compels you to say it, but as soon as you do, you really feel you mean it.  

Chloe looks like she's going to roll her eyes, but you touch her wrist and she suddenly looks at you. She looks vulnerable. It just makes you even more determined.

"Promise," you say, and you know that maybe 'promise' has lost its meaning in those five years separated—you remember that, once upon a time, you had promised you would never leave each other...

But you never forgot. Not once. Not ever. And maybe forgotten promises are worse than broken promises.

There's a pause of a few seconds before Chloe breaks her gaze. "I hope so. You'd like Rachel."

 

A door slams downstairs suddenly, frightening you; you rip your hand away from Chloe's wrist.

"Chloe?" calls a man's voice. You look at Chloe for some explanation but she looks just as alarmed as you feel.

"Fuck." She springs up from the bed. "You need to hide."

"Wait, what?" You sit up. "Hide? Why?"

"Step-dick, he'll totally freak," Chloe whispers urgently.

"Step-dick?"

"Just fuckin' do it, my step-dad's batshit, hide in the closet or something, I don't know," Chloe says all in one breath. You bolt upright.

"Chloe, are you here?" the man shouts again. You hear him walking up the stairs.

"Uh, yeah!" Chloe calls back.

"When the hell are you not in trouble, missy?"  

Chloe shoots you a look. _Go_.

You hurriedly open the closet door – nearly knocking over a lamp on your way – and stuff yourself inside, in between clothes and hangers.

"Dunno what you're talking about, Madsen," Chloe shouts back.  

_Madsen._

"Oh, I think you do." David Madsen, security guard of Blackwell waltzes into the room like he owns the place. Maybe he does. You don't know. You didn't even know Joyce remarried. You edge back further into the closet, peeking through the slats.

He's standing there, in the middle of the room, staring Chloe down. Chloe looks disinterested. She pulls off her leather jacket and tosses it onto her bed, exposing one massive sleeve tattoo, an explosion of colors and ribbon and butterflies. A skull in the center.

Uh, wow.

"Some friends down at the station told me some valuable information, Chloe."  

Chloe snorts. "Friends."

David continues, ignoring her, pacing around the room as he rants.

"They said you've been hanging around that shit-pit near the train tracks again. What in God's name are you doing at that junkyard?"  

"What does it matter to you?" Chloe spits. "Maybe I'm looking for Rachel."

David freezes.

"First of all, that's in the hands of the Ambers and the police. _Not_ you," he says, pointing at Chloe. She takes a step back.

"And it matters to me because you have no idea what kind of degenerates are lurking around there. Dangerous... _things_."

Chloe sighs dramatically, placing her hands on her hips.

"You wanna be like them, huh? A degenerate?" David presses. "By the looks of this place you're heading in the right direction," he spits, gesturing wildly with his arms. "I mean, what is this, a crack-house? The place stinks. Stop smoking in here while you live under my roof."

"Fuck you, man, the police aren't doing shit and you know it, so just stop using me as your fucking punching bag. Don't you abuse enough Blackwell students?"

David lunges forward and Chloe immediately darts to the side. She _knows_ to get out of his way. It makes you nauseous. You don't know how many times this has happened before, but you feel like you should step in before things get worse.

"Leave. Me. _Alone_ ," Chloe says levelly. David hisses under his breath.

"Just listen to me, Chloe. I'm trying to keep you safe. There are monsters in Arcadia Bay."

"Oh, you have no idea," Chloe says. They maintain eye contact for an unsettling amount of time before David finally turns away, exiting the room, slamming the door. Chloe's shoulders slump.  

You tentatively step out of the closet, and she collapses back onto her mattress without another word.

"That was... intense," you say. It's kind of an understatement. You're terrified.

"Tell me about it," she replies, monotonous. You worry your lip.

"Um... you're really brave. For standing up to him like that."

Chloe chokes out some kind of half-sob, half-laugh. "No, I'm just used to his shit."

After a few more tense seconds, Chloe sits back up again, running a hand through blue hair. "Let's bail out of here. We can use the window."

 

You feel dizzy and light. Chloe has no problem jumping from the roof; she lands on her feet like it's no big deal, even though you're certain if you jumped that quickly you'd sprain your ankles.

Your attempt is significantly less practiced, but Chloe catches you when you stumble.

 

* * *

 

 **Warren**  

Yo, you okay?  

You left pretty quickly. 
    
    
    10/07 6:36pm  
    
      
    
      
    
    

"You listening?"  

"What?" You look up from your phone to Chloe. She's walking backwards up the little path to the lighthouse, eyes on you. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, Warren texted me," you say, typing a quick response and pocketing your phone again.

Chloe raises an eyebrow.

"I kinda left him there, earlier. Didn't really explain what was going on. Oops."

"Parking lot dude!" Chloe exclaims, clicking her tongue. "Gotcha."  

"That's him."

"Don't think he likes me very much," Chloe chuckles.

"He doesn't know you," you smile back, "but I wouldn't be surprised, considering that introduction."  

"Local punk knocks hipster girl to the ground, yells at friend then kidnaps her," Chloe puts on her best news-reporter voice. You grin widely.  

"Kindly tends to wounds and donates cozy hoodie, betrays punk reputation—"

" _Noo_ ," Chloe groans. "Never losing my punk cred."

"We'll see." Chloe smiles at you, then turns around again, quickening her pace.

You're nearly at the clearing when you remember your weird dream earlier, and it hits full force when you see the lighthouse again; lightning strikes echoing in your memory. You shiver.

The feeling dissipates when you look around and take in the rest of your surroundings; the gold-tinged sky and shimmering sea, the forest trees swaying gently in the wind, the smell of salt in the air.  

On instinct, you take your camera out of your bag.

"Knew you were gonna do that," Chloe says. She's sitting on the bench now—and actually, that would be a pretty nice shot of her, looking over towards you with the sunset behind her.

"You had on that photo-face," she explains, "You did it when you borrowed my dad's camera too."

You take the picture of her.

"Photographic orgasm, I'm telling you," she shouts. You choke back a laugh, glad she turns around again before noticing your embarrassment.

"Are you talking about my face, or yourself in that shot?" you ask.

"Flatterer," Chloe responds simply.  

 

You join her on the bench eventually.

"Sorry you had to see step-dick's rage back there," Chloe mutters. You shake your head lightly.

"It's fine, he's pretty bad at Blackwell too."

"Well, that's not even his final form," Chloe replies, looking to the sky.

You can imagine.

There's another silence where you just watch Chloe. It's still hard to believe that this is really happening. You, being here with Chloe, after all these years. You keep expecting to wake up again and discover that this was all a dream. But you blink really hard, and no—no, this is real. This is very real.  

...You don't want to have to leave Chloe again. You don't really know what she's been through in the years you were away, but...

"I'm glad you're back, Max," Chloe says. You sigh. That's it, exactly.

"Me too," you reply, looking out to sea again.

"I really hope we find Rachel," Chloe says, looking down at her hands in her lap. "Hate this fuckin' town. Too many assholes in it. Too many secrets. No answers."

Her talk about assholes and answers suddenly sparks your memory, and the whole bathroom situation earlier comes back to you.  

You shift in your seat, knowing you should definitely come clean about that.  

You can't believe you forgot to tell her. About Nathan. About the gun. You don't know what her reaction will be, but you start anyway.

"Chloe?"  

"Mm."

"Were you, uh... Earlier today. Were you in the girls’ bathroom, with Nathan Prescott?"

Chloe doesn't say anything. She just puts her face in her hands.

"Uh, Chloe?"

Her low " _fuuuuuuck_ " is muffled behind her hands. You'll take that as a yes.

"How did you know? Were you by the lockers?" Chloe asks after groaning.

"I was... in the bathroom."

"What?" Chloe spins her whole body around, incredulous. You try and laugh, but it's nervous; it sounds more like a wheeze.

"Um, yeah. Sorry. I was hiding behind a stall. From Nathan."

"What did you see?" she asks, voice shrill.

"Nothing! Well, nothing really. A gun. A fight." Chloe's face is back in her hands again. "Your hair," you continue.  

"I'll, uh..." Chloe trails off, looking exhausted. "I will tell you more about it. Just—just not yet. Not today."

"That's okay," you say. Your younger self would frown, petulant, _best friends tell each other everything_ —but you're not there yet. So it's fair. You let it sit for a little while, wondering what Nathan's got to do with Rachel Amber.

"Today's been..."  

"Strange," you finish for Chloe.

"Yeah."

"I had a nightmare in class today."

"What?"

You smile a little. "Just, you know, if we're talking about strange things."

"Shit, dude, falling asleep in class. Soon you'll have as much punk cred as me," Chloe snorts.

"I don't remember falling asleep, I just remember waking up... I was right there—" you say, pointing over towards the lighthouse. Chloe looks where you're gesturing. "And there was like, some big storm or something. The lighthouse was being zapped by lightning."

Chloe frowns, slowly. "Lightning?"

"Yeah," you say, "like bright red lightning. It was so weird. I think I might've died." Chloe's still frowning.

"...In the dream."

"Red lightning," she repeats, a distant look in her eyes.

"Yeah," you say. "I don't know what it means."

Chloe looks back towards you again. "Not every dream has a meaning."

She stands up then, stretching her arms lazily, limbs loose and free in the sunlight. "Rachel used to talk about shit like that. Dreams, astrology... dumb stuff... It was nice. But _such_ bullshit."

She pauses, thoughtful.

"We should break into the lighthouse," she says, then turns on her heel and marches towards it.

 

"Wait, what?" you ask, getting up onto your feet. "You're not serious," you say, but she's not listening, still walking towards the old structure.

"Isn't it closed for a reason?" you ask.

"Yeah, to stop punks like us," Chloe grins.

"Like _you_ ," you correct her, folding your arms. "This is so illegal."  

Chloe's at the door now, looking it up and down. You can hear something humming inside the building.

"Why, why, why do you want to do this—"

"Because I can!" she says, then gives the chains keeping the door closed a pull.

"I don't think you can," you say. You want to abandon this idea immediately, but Chloe has a one-track mind and a surprising amount of upper arm strength. She yanks on the chains again.

"Do me a favor," she says. "Go over to the tables down there, in the trees. Y'know, the picnic tables."

" _What?_ " you ask, shaking your head. You don't know how many times you've asked that question in this one day.

"See if you can find, like, something to open this. Pliers or some shit."

"Why would there be pliers down there?"

"Come  _on_ ," Chloe whines, "I'm impulsive. Indulge me." You stare back at her, slack-jawed.

"Pretty please."

"Is this really happening?" you mutter, turning around.

" _Yes!_ Thank you!" Chloe says excitedly as you start to walk away.

"I still don't know why you're doing this," you call as you make your way down the path. "I don't know why I'm an accomplice to this—"

There's suddenly a sharp noise, like metal clanging, and you spin swiftly around. "Chloe?"

You frown and slowly walk back to the lighthouse again.  

"Max!" Chloe shouts. You feel a little panicked, but when you see Chloe's face, she's just smiling. "Never mind, got it."

"You..." you trail off, looking at the chain in her hands.  

"Easy."  

"Are you fucking with me?"  

"Not at all," Chloe says, and you're about to call her out on that sarcastic tone of hers, but she just winks and kicks the padlock at her feet away.  

You have no idea how she managed to get that open. With her bare hands.

"Come on, do the honors."

"This is crazy," you say, but the buzz of adventure you're feeling is undeniably severe. You walk over towards the door and reach out to the handle – sensing Chloe behind you, hearing her shallow breathing.

You stop before you touch it.  

"...No, you do it. Your idea."

Chloe rolls her eyes and pushes the handle down.

 

You didn't really know what you were expecting. You're not sure what Chloe was expecting either. The spiral staircase is glowing red, somehow, pulsating—like there's a silent alarm going off somewhere. You frown, and take a step inside.

"I don't remember the light... from when we came here as kids, I mean," you mumble. Chloe takes you by the arm.

"You chickening out?" you ask, but when you look at her, she genuinely looks frozen for a moment. "Um, Chloe?"

"No," she says, then she's smiling again, weakly. As soon as she steps into the building, the humming noise gets louder. Electricity sparks somewhere.

"What was that?" you ask. Chloe doesn't answer.

"Are you sure you're not fucking with me? Please tell me this is a prank—"

"It's not a prank," Chloe says.  

There's another flash of red and you jump, bumping into Chloe.

"Fuck," she whispers. "Chill. Wanna go upstairs?"

"No," you answer. "I think we should leave. It's creeping me out how similar this is to my nightmare."

Chloe hums. "Maybe you should stay outside then."

"What? No. No, I'm not leaving you in here! Let's just go."

Chloe takes another step forward and there's another hiss of electricity.  

"You're not telling me something," you say. Chloe remains silent again.

"Whatever it is, you should tell me now."

"I said I'll tell you shit later," she says, looking up the staircase, but the source of the noise isn't up there, it's somewhere down here—underneath.

"Are they... are they related or something?"

"Answer me, Chloe," you say, grabbing her by the wrist. She suddenly jolts away from your grasp, crashing into the back wall, kicking something over. Then you see the crate in the corner, some kind of metal cage, and the red glow just keeps getting brighter and brighter. The whole place is illuminated in it now.

"Fuck—" she whispers, eyes widening. "I know what this is. You need to get out of here, now, Max."

"You're—you're not telling me what's going on, just explain to me," you're babbling now, nervous, but you're not sure if she's paying attention to you anymore. The humming is intoxicating, this electricity is pulsing right through you—you've never felt anything like this before, you're pretty sure you're going to die.

" _Go,_ " Chloe says. "I should've done this alone. I thought—when you said about your nightmare, it reminded me—of something, something to do with— _ugh_ ," she groans loudly. "Messages. It was a message. It was a fucking warning, not guidance, holy shit!"

"What?" you shout.

"I was stupid! I shouldn't have involved you in this, fucking—Go, Max."

"Come with me then!"

"No, you don't understand, this whole fucking thing will blow. I need to follow through with this. I promise I'll explain. I _promise_."

You stand there, frowning, head pounding. Messages, warnings, nightmares. Promises.  

Warren was right. Something supernatural is going on in Arcadia Bay. And Chloe knows about it. She knows, because she's standing in the middle of it all, red electricity sparkling at her feet, but she doesn't even care. She's worried about _you_.

"Hurry," she's saying.

"I'm not leaving you." You grab her by the hand, and pull.

And it's like a fuse blows. You don't hear it, just sense being lifted off your feet, like in the nightmare. And it's probably the stupidest thing you've ever done in your entire life, but Chloe's with you.

 

* * *

 

After what feels like an eternity, you open your eyes slowly. Chloe's lying down beside you, on the grass, right beside the lighthouse, staring at you, fucking petrified.

"How are you not dead?" she asks.  

"Everything hurts," you answer slowly, groaning. "Maybe I am dead."

"You're not dead, dumbass. _Nearly_ dead, sure, but nope, you seem pretty alive to—" She stops, eyes trained on something behind you.

"Is that you? Doing that?" she asks. You roll over slowly, looking up to the sky.  

Metal scraps are hanging suspended in the air above you. Chunks of wire, shrapnel, all that stuff from that cage in the lighthouse. In the air. Frozen in time and space.

"You're lying. I am dead," you say. Chloe starts coughing and sputtering beside you.

"It is literally impossible that I'm a human being who is alive right now," you continue, rubbing your eyes. The floating metal doesn't disappear.  

"You're definitely alive," Chloe says, and she looks back towards you again, eyes fierce.

"But you're right. You sure as hell aren't human."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of thanks to Danny for proofreading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back

**M.**

 

As Chloe's words sink in, something gives way. Some kind of pressure that you never noticed until now vanishes from inside your head, stealing your breath away and sending a shiver down your spine as it disappears.

Then the debris drops.

But before the metal can crash back to Earth like falling stars, a single gray plume shoots through the air, striking it — and then it's raining around you both; sparking and dangerous but avoiding you miraculously.

Chloe's breathing is erratic beside you. You look around at her, her outstretched arm, her chest rising and falling. She lets her hand fall with a nervous, “uh”.

You don’t know what to say.

“What just happened?”

You expect Chloe to either be as confused as you, or finally give in and tell you what the fuck is going on. Instead, she looks away and asks quietly, “...you first?”

You sit upright, brushing the dirt from your jeans. "What do you mean? I — I don't know what's going on."

"Well, yeah. But, like… I don't know what's going on with you, you don't know what's going on with me, so…" Chloe scratches her head. "You tell me what you know?"

You continue staring blankly at her.

"You must know something," Chloe says, eyebrows creasing in concern, "I mean, you're a conduit, right?"

A moment passes.

"What?”

"Y'know, the whole—" Chloe waves her hands in the air. "Telekinesis thing?"

… Telekinesis.

"Th-that wasn't," you sputter, "I'm not _telekinetic_ , I—"

"How else do you explain that?" Chloe asks. She looks kind of tense as she continues. "You're like a— a metal conduit? Controlling metal, or some element, like—”

"Are you messing with me?"

"No, it's just the only thing that makes sense, y'know? Telekinesis. That's how you stopped that shit in the air."

"That… that doesn’t make sense."

Chloe pauses to brush the hair away from her eyes, blue against blue. She takes a deep breath.

"That,” she says, gesturing to the heap of junk cast aside from the lighthouse, “ _had_ to be you, Max, like — I know this is hella freaky and you’re gonna be all ‘shit, life isn’t an anime or some video game’, but just...”

"It could've been some magnetic thing. Because... the lighthouse, and... the noise," you mumble, pulling faces as you try to convince yourself. "Anything else. Just... not... _superpowers_."

"Why not?" Chloe laughs, airy and nervous.

"Because! Superpowers don't…" You stop short. Chloe watches the expression on your face. “Exist,” you finish, slowly.

Chloe looks away, fidgeting with her hands like she used to do when she got worried as a kid.

“Chloe… what did you do? The smoke. Was that..."

Chloe rubs her eyes with her palm.

"This is complicated," she says. Not an answer.

"You can tell me."

"No, seriously, Max— it's... I thought you were in on this, but, like, you're not. I shouldn't drag you into this. I shouldn't drag you _down_ with this."

You ignore practically everything Chloe's saying.

"So, you're telekinetic?" you ask, doubtful, but needing to gauge a more helpful reaction from Chloe.

"What? How did you get that from what I just said—"

"I saw you. I can't forget that."

Chloe watches you warily, and you stare back, piercing. The image flickers in your mind. Danger, hands, smoke.

"I won't forget that," you repeat.

"…it's not – telekinesis. I mean, _you_ might have that, which is, uh, _important_ , and we should probably focus on that too – but no."

"I saw you lift your hand, and there was, like, a cloud, Chloe... so, what _was_ that? Air-kinesis?"

"Air-kinesis? Uh, aerokinesis, I think.”

Your eyes widen, and just seconds later, Chloe's widen too. Caught, she whips her head around and swears to the ground.

"Shit. We're really doing this."

"You’re an airbender?”

“What? Oh my _God_ , Max,” Chloe groans, “no, no I’m— I’m not an _airbender_ , I’m not aerokinetic, fuck. I was just—” She chokes out a laugh. “I’m screwing this up. This is such a long story.”

You feel lightheaded. You close your eyes, waiting to wake up from this like it’s just another weird dream, something wild your subconscious has produced to save you from the most boring photography lesson on Earth. But when you open your eyes, Chloe is just looking back at you. Scared and honest and real.

You trust her. You always have, and always will.

“We’ve got time,” you say.

Chloe looks up to the sky, and you follow her eyes, noticing the sun beginning to set. "Okay. Let's... let's walk and talk, then," she says, pushing herself up from the ground.

"Walk where?"

"To the truck," she says, like it's obvious, then holds her hand out to pull you up. "We'll drive. So when you think I'm crazy you can't run away."

You're surprised by your own sudden laughter, but luckily, it seems to relax Chloe slightly. She breathes out, a small smile on her face.

You reach out and take her hand.

 

* * *

 

**C.**

 

Saying that your situation is hard to explain is just like saying Max Caulfield looks pretty **:** it’s a damn understatement. She has _freckles_ , for fuck’s sake. She’s unfairly cute, always has been, and you feel stupid for thinking it every time you catch her nervous eyes.

Something’s nestled deep down inside you, snarling and yapping away like a manic chihuahua, saying that you shouldn’t forgive her so easy. You shouldn’t let her in like you’re doing. You shouldn't have taken her back to your place, gifted her your hoodie, talked about Rachel, let her take your photo, make you feel warm and dizzy at the thought of her coming back to you. You’re gonna get fucking let down. Abandoned, as always. Shit, she’s been here since her semester _started_  and never sought you out once. How can you believe anything the girl who promised she’d never leave you says?

But that voice is muffled and small. It flares up in the moments of silence, when Max isn’t looking at you, talking to you, right beside you. And it calms back down whenever Max says anything, obviously — ‘cause everything she says is as sweet as she was back at seven years old, standing scared in the playground on the day you both met.

It’s shitty thinking like that, not knowing whether to trust yourself or just go fuck yourself. You got this way about Rachel, too; scared she was lying when she said she missed your calls, worried she cared about Blackwell’s club of cronies more than you. You still don’t know, really… if she ever actually...

Fuck, that shit doesn’t matter. Not right now. What matters is _finding_ her, and working out this shit with Max. Who’s here. And very in the dark about… everything.

You’ve been driving for maybe five minutes without actually saying anything. You can tell Max is antsy; her leg’s twitching like crazy, she keeps glancing at you — this isn’t very fair on her, honestly.

You didn’t have a destination in mind, you just needed to drive, but the roads seem to lead back to where it all started. Figures.

 _American Rust_.

You sigh and let the truck roll to a halt, cutting the engine, shifting to neutral. You can’t just drive past here; the crux of it all.

Max is looking out the window intently, eyes scanning the scenery, brows furrowing. All the junk you know too well is lit up in sunset orange.

“Wanna take some snaps, photographer?” you attempt, teasing.

Max smiles shyly in response.

“Maybe after you tell me why we’re here, punk,” she replies, shakily, but with a glint in her eye.

God, she’s cute.

“Uh, yeah.” You exhale and push your hair back, leaning further into your seat. “I got a history with this place.”

That’s another understatement.

You have so many memories here that it’s like flipping through one of those mega CD binders from the 2000s. Except most of the discs are cracked, missing, corrupted, or burned for fun.

“I’d come here whenever things got bad at home,” you say. You pat your pockets then, desperate for a cigarette or anything to do with your hands, but come up empty.

“A few nights I’d actually crash here," you add.

Max looks at you, face a picture of sadness. You grimace. That’s what you get for talking about your fucked-up life, Price.

“Like, you’d… sleep…?”

“Not every night, shit, I wasn’t homeless,” you defend sharply. “...But, uh, sometimes. Yeah.”

Max goes silent. You’re glad she doesn’t say any shit like she’s sorry. You never could handle pity.

“That was mostly around when Blackwell kicked me to the curb, anyway,” you add lowly, looking away from her. “‘Rents weren’t too happy to see me, so I just, y’know. Obliged. Edgy of me, right?”

“...You deserved so much better, Chloe,” Max mumbles, wringing her hands.

You’re not sure you believe her. It’s nice to hear, though.

You absently reach over and hit the glovebox with your fist, letting it fall open in front of Max, eyes widening a little when you discover past-you stashed a joint there last week. God bless her.

You stick it between your lips and scramble around the cabin for a lighter, ‘cause Max’ll freak if you light it the way you usually do. Which reminds you of why you actually brought her here.

“Anyway,” you say after lighting up and inhaling sweet, sweet smoke. You breathe out, and at the same time try to exhale the images of you at seventeen; junkyard bonfires and shotgunned kisses, lonely nights and broken bottles, smashed-up wrecks and baseball bats.

Stargazing in truckbeds and never enough words to make anything real.

“Here is where... things began," you start. "I came here one time after a big fight with stepdouche. Was right after Rachel disappeared, so I was really fucked up. I couldn’t sleep at all, so I kept staying out way too late either looking for her or distracting myself from her. I was so sleep-deprived that I thought I was actually like, hearing voices ‘n shit, it was fucking awful. And this one night I was drifting in and out of consciousness and I was so damn certain I heard Rachel’s voice, saying something about our secret place — and yeah, I’m not looking at you right now ‘cause I know you’re gonna think this whole part is insane — but I just jumped out of bed and grabbed my keys, like whoosh. Up in a flash.”

Max nods at you.

“It's stupid, but I was desperate, you know? I'd do— I'd do anything, so—”

“I get you, Chloe. Don’t worry.”

You relax. She gives you a small, reassuring smile.

“Yeah. Anyway, Joyce and David basically had me in chains at that point, so as soon as I got out my bedroom door Sergeant Asshat was turning on all the lights and interrogating me. And I just… I just pushed through it.”

“He didn’t…?” Max asks warily. You're not sure what she means. Stop you? Beat you? Give in and kick you out like you know he wanted to?

You sigh.

“I just raged right back at him," you recall. "Had to go get my girl."

 

* * *

 

“ _Fuck off!”_

“Chloe, for goodness’ sake, listen to David,” Joyce pleads, reaching out for your arm. She looks like a riot, standing in the hall in her pajamas, still blinking the sleep out of her eyes. “He just wants what’s best for you. We’re on your side."

You twist away from her. “I can’t even remember the last time you were on my side, never fucking mind Admiral Dipshit—”

“You insolent little shit—”

“The both of you!” Joyce cries, swiveling around to grab David’s arm now. “Quit it. This is not happening under my roof.”

“Thing is, Mom, it’s been happening under your roof ever since you let that sleazebag in.”

“She doesn’t even realize _she’s_ the damn problem, Joyce!” David spits, gesturing at you like you’re dogshit on his shoe.

“I’m the problem, yep, I’m always the problem, blah, blah—”

“You are not leaving this house, missy,” Joyce warns as you casually swing around the banister, grabbing your old leather jacket. “Not until we sort this out.”

“I am leaving. Madsen here says I’m useless in this house anyway, don'tcha? Jobless dropout sucking the life outta you guys.” You head downstairs as David snaps behind you, pausing at the bottom to tuck your laces in your boots.

“If you take one more step—”

“What, David? If I take one more step, _what_? Let me guess. You’ll hit me again?”

It’s like you dropped a nuke in the hall. Joyce freezes, eyes flitting to David bewilderedly. David’s face pales.

“I’m not scared,” you say, and head for the door.

“Chloe—”

“David?” Joyce asks, sounding broken.

“See you,” you say. “Maybe never.”

It's maybe one of the most dramatic exits you've made in your life, but you don't realize or give a shit about that at the time. You just walk briskly to your truck, turn on the engine, and hit the gas. 

Your cell buzzes on the dashboard to the point where it starts to get annoying. You grab it, try and turn it off with one hand, catching a quick glimpse of the messages. Random words flash, mismatched parts of sentences like jigsaw pieces, before the screen cuts to black and you focus on the road again.

 _please. sorry. talk. don't. i won't. you. he. come back. love you. we can. 3:38AM._   _accident_.  _where_. 

 

The junkyard is empty, obviously.

Because Rachel is gone.

You search every inch of it, wandering, smoking, crying, choking. You don't understand. You wish you were dead.

You collapse into the hideout's makeshift sofa and sink, remembering nothings, the way she would brush your hair, the feel of her lips, her laugh ringing through the night. The elephant on the wall watches you break with commiseration. 

There's an old bottle of rum tucked in the gap of a cement block holding up your table. You take half. It's disgusting.

"You crazy bitch," you whisper when you finally feel the buzz. You lie back, staring up at the night sky through the gaps in the paneling. "You crazy fucking bitch."

 _Chloe_.

"Shut up," you say. "Not now."

 _Chloe_.

"I said shut up!" you shout, launching the bottle at the doorway, watching it smash into sparkling little pieces. What a damn waste.

 _...Chloe_.

"No," you moan, head in your hands, tears stinging your eyes. "No, no, no. Go away." You've been so good. Dad's voice hasn't invaded your head in a while, the nightmares after his death began to fade out of your life by the time you turned seventeen — your crazy is supposed to be over. 

 _Chlo_.

"She's not dead!" you hiss. "So stop using her _fucking_ voice."

 _Shh_.

You sniff, wiping away snot and tears.

_Find me._

You blink. 

"Fuck off."

 _Please_.

You stand up on shaky feet. You don't know what to do. Checking yourself into a psych ward seems like the wisest choice. 

 _You're okay_.

"I'm gonna— I'm gonna throw up," you murmur. "Why can't you just be quiet?" 

_Find me._

You sob, falling into the wall. Your brain's punishing you. You're certifiably insane. Your mind is making Rachel up to torture you. 

_I'm here._

You slowly fall through the doorway, looking around, finding nobody. You'll just head to the truck. Sleep there.

_I'm here._ _I'm here. I'm here. Chlo. I'm—_

"Where?!"

_Burning._

Your blood runs cold.

"No."

_...No._

_Chloe._

_Fire._

_Summer._

_2011._

_...Chloe?_

"The bonfire?" you whisper.

_Find me._

You swallow, staring out into the darkness. You turn left, hesitantly.

The junkyard is a lot harder to navigate when you're nearly wasted and it's four in the morning. You find the opening eventually, an old tire blocking the entrance, empty beer bottles strewn across the ground. You kick everything out of the way, shoving your way in.

Nobody’s there, of course.

You stare at the burned-up pile of ash at your feet. The image of Rachel perching on the highest piled-up junker — dangling her feet in front of the flames, throwing marshmallows at you as you struggled to climb up and join her — flashes in your memory. Soft, warm, distant. Its pain is the worst kind.

You’re done. You turn to leave.

 _No_.

An old wheel rim falls from fucking nowhere and nearly whacks you in the face. You jump back, tripping over the bonfire, colliding with a rusty car behind you.

“For fuck’s sake!”

 _Careful_.

You brush off your arms. “Fucking funny.”

 _Fire_.

You ignore her voi— your voice. It’s stupid, making no sense and wasting your time. You trip over your feet again on the way to the exit.

 _Careful_.

“Shut up, oh my God,” you whine.

 _No_.

 _Stay_.

_I’m here._

_Fire._

“There is no fucking fire!”

 _Light_.

"You're fucking kidding me." You laugh humorlessly. "I’m not lighting that shit. I’m going home,” you hiss, then freeze. You can’t go home. Of course you can’t go home, dumbass—

_I’m here._

_Find me_.

_Light._

_Fire._

_Chlo._

_Stay._

_Please_.

_You’re okay._

The voice doesn’t stop.

It’s filling your head, louder and louder, you can’t think, you can’t see, you try and shove forward but it hurts and it’s _her_ but it _can’t_ be her and you _need_ it to be her.

“Shut up!”

But she doesn’t. You press your eyes shut. She keeps going relentlessly and it burns. You don’t understand. You don’t _understand_. You’re terrified and you need out, you’re freaking, you’re not paying attention to where you're going, you’re crashing into the junk, scraps are tumbling, there’s something metal and red and falling, and you need—

" _Stop_!" you plead. "Stop, stop, stop—"

You just need _her_.

Your eyes fly open as you scream, a broken, cracking sound.

Smoke fills your lungs as ash flies from the firepit, surrounding you, twirling around you in warm grey and gold tendrils. Heat explodes from— from somewhere; the ground below you lighting up and up and up, bright and hot and burning every cell in your body.

Then there’s a boom. Something pulses like a shockwave, coming right from your core, and you sob in pain as you hear glass shattering and steel crashing against steel, the noise of everything breaking deafening you.

The universe cracks open.

You’re finally dropped to your knees.

You start coughing, choking on something crawling up your throat, preparing to vomit. Instead, when it comes, you wheeze on a heavy darkness; something distinctly not solid nor liquid.

You slowly look up, eyes burning, and realize your surroundings have changed completely. The space is no longer cramped and confined: cars have been pushed away, doors smashed in like they’ve all been hit by semis. Junk is mangled, thrown back and scattered by the blast. The bonfire glows faintly, embers disintegrating, its light fading out.

You start crying again.

“Fuck. Fuck!"

Your voice comes out busted and crackly like you’ve been screaming for hours. You pull at your hair till it hurts.

“Where are you now, huh? What the fuck was that?” you yell. “What was that?!”

Silence is your only response.

“ _Fuck_!” you scream, letting go of your hair suddenly, staring right at the stupid fucking bonfire as you slice your hands down through the air.

The next thing you know, the embers are exploding back to life, yellow flames growing tall and bright out of nothing at all. You stumble backwards, eyes wide, falling onto your ass as you gasp.

The fire burns in front of your eyes. Smoke washes over you, smooth and warm and good.

“What?” you whisper, small and scared.

_Thank you._

You scramble to your feet, and run. You reach the truck, yanking the handle so hard it nearly breaks off, and lock yourself inside. You wrap yourself up in the blanket thrown across your seats, and hug yourself, breathing heavily, closing your eyes, willing the world to stop.

The last thing you hear before you pass out, is _‘You’re okay'._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~origin story~
> 
> thank you for reading
> 
> and thank you to the person in the comments of the last chapter for kickstarting me back into writing this au again


	5. Chapter 5

**C.**

 

Max’s hand is on top of yours in an instant. You startle at the touch.

Her eyes meet yours: soft gaze and concerned brows, shadow cast across her face. The sun sinks lower below the trees, leaving you both in the darkness of the cab. Max swallows, licking her lips, preparing to finally say something.

“Were you okay?”

You look down, idly realizing your hand is shaking under hers. She squeezes it a little tighter.

“Eventually,” you breathe, remembering the days you spent lingering around the junkyard, staying away from everyone you knew.

“So… so what happened?” Max continues.

“I woke up the next day. Thought I just got smashed and passed out in the truck, had a weird nightmare, at first. Until…”

You shiver. These memories are awful, and you’ve never been able to tell anyone about them. It reminds you of therapy, a little. The thought provokes an empty laugh.

“Until I realised that the weird shit didn’t go away.”

“...You still heard a voice?”

You shake your head. “No, I mean the… the smoke thing. I could do stuff with smoke. Was like I hopped right out of _X-Men_. You— you saw it, back at the—”

“The lighthouse. Yeah, I did.” Max leans back, taking her hand away, falling back against her seat. “Jeez. This is all so…”

“I know.”

You both sit there, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing.

It figures, really, that the day you meet Max Caulfield again would be the day you have superpowers. It’s so unrealistic that your childhood self would believe it in a heartbeat.

“Can you show me again?” Max asks quietly.

You perk up in your seat, thought process instantly stopping.

“What? Uh, really?”

Max nods.

You feel something stirring in your stomach. You don’t see why not; there’s no need to hide it anymore now that she knows. But you’re so _used_ to hiding it, it’s second nature at this point.

“You’re— you’re sure?” you ask. “It’s— it can be scary, I know.”

“I’m sure,” she confirms with a nod. “Seen it already anyway, so… what’s the harm?”

“I guess,”  you respond, looking down at your palms nervously. “Just uh, don’t— don’t touch it. I don’t wanna hurt you by accident.”

“I’ll keep my hands to myself.” She smiles at you reassuringly.

You don’t know where to start. You look outside for inspiration.

“Roll down your window,” you say. Max does as you say.

You slowly raise your free hand in the air, pointing it in the direction of your half-smoked joint. You pause, apprehensive, glancing at Max one final time. She’s watching you eagerly.

You breathe out, then go.

Her eyes widen as you draw in its smoke with your hand. You feel the familiar, healing sensation of smooth warmth passing up your arm — watching as you let the smoke twirl in spirals around your fingers.

“L-lean back in your seat,” you say, and Max does, eyes never leaving you. “Keep still.”

You stretch your arm out, focusing on a beer bottle resting on the old refrigerator by the junkyard’s entrance. You frown in rare concentration, making sure your aim is fucking perfect before finally releasing the energy you saved up in a quick, single bolt.

It hits the bottle dead on. Max’s eyes go so wide it’s adorable. You lower your hand, letting smoke roll over you, feeling proud of yourself for the first time in a while.

“Wow,” Max says. “That’s, uh… that was cool.” She rubs her eyes, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, that was a lame response. My best friend shows me she’s got superpowers and I say ‘that’s cool’...”

“No!” you laugh, “No, it’s...” You trail off.

_Best friend._

Your heart’s doing somersaults at the term. Max can’t seriously consider you that anymore. What kinda low standards does she have for a best friend if they’re allowed to be someone she hasn’t contacted in five years?

It was probably reflex. Nothing actually that important. Maybe she just never made any other friends.

Or maybe it’s her way of saying that she wants you both to get back to that point.

“Cool?” Max finishes for you. It takes a moment for your brain to remember what you were saying, but when you do, you laugh.

“Yeah, cool.” Your smirk fades as you remember today’s events. “But, uh, speaking of. Earlier… at the lighthouse…”

Max face falls.

“That seriously wasn’t me,” you say.

“Y-Yeah,” Max responds, fidgeting with her hands.

If she’s like you, you gotta ease her into it. It’s a fucking miracle that you survived being thrust into this life without an ounce of support at all — and you’re _still_ shitscared of yourself. A little guidance this time around could make all the difference.

“Do you feel any different?” you ask quietly. “When I got my shit, it hurt like hell, but you were kinda knocked out in the blast, so...”

“I... guess. I felt a bit different,” she says. “But I don’t have anything like you do. I can’t make smoke. And I can’t move things with my mind. I don’t know what happened earlier or— or how to do it again. I honestly think it maybe wasn’t anything to do with us.”

“I—” You sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe we can focus on this tomorrow. It’s pretty late right now,” you add, glancing at your phone. “I mean, if you want to hang tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “Of course, Chloe.”

 

* * *

 

 

**M.**

 

You wake up to your phone buzzing on your bedside table. Groggily, you reach over, and shit, seeing Chloe’s name on the screen is still weird for you. You traded numbers last night, even though you’re sure neither of you actually changed them in the years you spent apart. You unlock your phone, squinting at the text.

 

 **Chloe**   

yo

u there max? 

was thinkin i could take u out to breakfast or somethin 

if u want 
    
    
    10/08 9:16am  
    
    

You smile, surprised Chloe’s even awake this early.

 

** Chloe **

shit youre probably asleep

or got class soon?
    
    
    10/08 9:18am  
    
      
    
    

**You**   

Nope!

I mean, yes to breakfast. That'd be really nice

Don't have class till later today, Ms. Hoida's not feeling great, so
    
    
    10/08 9:19am  
    
      
    
    

**Chloe**   

great!! i call dibs on you then

2 whales? mom would like to see u again

unless youre like vegetarian or whatever now

which is kool

i kno how your kind is
    
    
    10/08 9:20am  
    
      
    
    

** You **

My kind?
    
    
    10/08 9:20am  
    
      
    
    

**Chloe**   

pnw college hipster duh
    
    
    10/08 9:20am  
    
      
    
    

** You **

Says the girl with blue hair!

But no, two whales is great :)
    
    
    10/08 9:21am  
    
      
    
    

 

 **Chloe**   

im punk FU

and NO EMOJI

meet u there in 30. sharp
    
    
    10/08 9:18am

 

 

You get dressed as quickly as you can, not really having the time to check Warren’s messages.

...Meh, you have enough time for a shower though. If you make it quick.

You sneak out of your room, swinging your shower supplies bag in the air as you walk down the hallway — but when you get there, you end up walking in on something you’re not really sure of.

Victoria and one of her followers are standing on either side of Kate, who’s shrunk into herself, brushing her teeth and looking down to the sink. The room goes silent when they notice you.

“Hi, Kate,” you say. She looks up at you, flashes you a toothpaste-smile, and looks down again.

“We best leave Katie alone now, T,” Victoria says, straightening her back. “Looks like she has company.”

She begins to walk away, bumping into you in the process — but before she goes straight past you, she does a double take; eyes narrowing on the bandages still taped to your elbows.

“You ate shit recently, Maxine?”

You cover them self-consciously, and watch as Taylor leaves the room after her, snickering. When the door swings shut, you turn to Kate.

“What the hell was that?”

Kate nearly chokes on her toothpaste. She spits it out, but then starts giggling, so you know she’s okay.

“I mean… uh, sorry, I’m tired— what was happening there?”

“I don’t really know,” Kate answers, wiping her mouth with the little washcloth she’s holding. “But it’s fine.”

“It didn’t look fine,” you mumble, frowning. “They’re mean.”

“I think Victoria’s just stressed right now,” Kate says thoughtfully.

“That doesn’t make her being shitty okay,” you tell her. You can’t _stand_ the idea of Kate getting hurt. And you know, from personal experience, that Victoria’s a nasty piece of work.

Kate’s expression is gloomy.

“...but I’m glad you’re not letting them get to you. You’re above them, Kate,” you add reassuringly.

“Thanks,” Kate replies with a warm smile, rubbing her wrist absently.

You wander over to the trashcan, peeling off the bandages and dropping them in. Kate doesn’t comment on your scratches, just gathers her belongings and heads for the door.

She pauses right before leaving. “Hey— I forgot to ask… were you okay in class yesterday?”

“Oh,” you say, lightning flashing in your memory. “Yeah, I was! I just, uh… yeah. I feel better today.”

“That’s good to hear. I was worried.”

You smile.

“No need.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why, if that ain’t one old face! _Max Caulfield_. Welcome home, honey.”

“Hi, Mrs. Madsen—”

“Oh, don’t give me that!” Joyce waves you off. “Come here, Max,” she says warmly, reaching out to wrap you in a hug you feel you don’t deserve. “It’s always Joyce. You know, there was a time you’d have to catch yourself from calling me Mom.”

You laugh, nervous.

“I remember, Joyce.”

She pulls away, letting you sit back down in the booth.

“Well, didn’t you turn out to be a fine young woman,” she says, eyes roaming over you.

This talk makes you uncomfortable, but you know it’s only Joyce’s affection.

“And it’s Price, by the way,” she adds, nudging you lightly with her elbow. “Always was, always will be.”

“Ah,” you say, cringing inwardly. “Sorry.”

“No worries, sweetheart. So you’ve met David?”

Your fists clench of their own accord.

“Yes, I have, um, at school and stuff.”

“Of course,” Joyce says, sighing. “Always looking out for you kids, he is.”

“Does he look out for Chloe?” It hops out of your mouth quicker than you can catch it, but it’s innocent enough that Joyce takes it in her stride.

“He tries.” She smiles sadly. “Chloe makes it hard. Girl’s gotta rebel against something or other.”

“Yeah… I, um, get the impression she feels he’s kinda controlling,” you say carefully.

“Pfft. Chloe… she can’t be controlled. Not unless she wants to be. David’s no match for her, I’ll assure you that.”

You disagree, but keep your mouth shut.

“It’s hard for us when she’s barely home anymore,” Joyce adds, expression going hazy. “Things have only gotten worse since her friend, Rachel, went away… poor girl.”

“I… heard.” You look down. “I think Chloe just needs some support… and time. Not… discipline.”

Joyce presses her lips together.

“You’re such a sweet girl, Max, but with all due respect, things have changed since you were last around these parts. Chloe, especially. I don’t know what she’s been telling you, but—” She shakes her head. “Well. We can only help so much before she realizes she needs to help herself, too,” Joyce says, folding her arms. Then her eyes go soft. “But I’m sure having you around will be good for her. You wouldn’t believe how… _alive_ she was last night, tellin’ me you came back. Happiest I’ve seen her in a long time.”

Your heartbeat speeds up at the prospect.

“Now, you’re smiling, so I’m assuming you’re planning on stickin’ around!”

“Gosh, yeah, of course I am. I feel so bad for not contacting you guys… I was just being stupid and scared, and…”

“You were just being a little kid, Max. These things happen. I’m just glad y’all have another chance.” Joyce smiles. “So! We just gonna stand here chattin’ all day or can I get you some food?”

You giggle. “Yes, please.”

“I still remember your favorites, so what’ll it be? Bacon omelette?”

“Belgian waffles, if you still do them…”

“ _If I still do them_ — I know I said things’ve changed here, but that’s a little extreme! Belgian waffles coming right up, sunshine.”

Joyce disappears off to the back.

You relax, that entire social interaction being a little too nerve wracking for you somehow. So many things have happened to you this week, that if someone told you about them last week, you’d never believe them in a million years.

_And it’s only Tuesday._

Goddamn.

You busy yourself with the packets of sugar at the booth, flicking through them to distract yourself until Chloe arrives. The door swings open a bit later, and you finally look up to see her wandering in; wrapped up in her leather jacket, hair slightly windswept.

“Hi, Miss. Be-There-Sharp,” you greet, watching as she makes her way to your booth.

“Ever heard of fashionably late, Maximus Prime?” Chloe smirks, launching herself into the seat opposite you.

“That one sucked,” you say, because it really did.

“Yeah, you’re right. It did.” Chloe adjusts her beanie then looks over her shoulder, eyes searching the breakfast bar. “Joyce seen you yet?”

“She took my order,” you reply.

“Mm.” Chloe drums her fingers on the table, nails painted electric blue. “She didn’t give you shit, did she?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” You smile. “We talked about you.”

“Well, that’s a shitty subject.”

“Shh,” you say, hitting her hand lightly, which earns you a look. “She said she’s glad that we’re, uh. Together again.”

“Hmph,” Chloe dismisses, looking away, but there’s the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Bet she said something ‘bout you needing to be a good influence on me.”

“What’s between me and your mom is between me and your mom, Chloe,” you joke, and Chloe kicks you under the table.

You sink into the seat after that, both falling into comfortable silence. Chloe surveys the room with her arms behind her head. She looks really tired, dark circles around her eyes, face pale.

You don’t mention it. You can’t blame her, considering the shit she’s dealing with right now.

“Wanna experiment?” Chloe asks suddenly, leaning forward in the booth and interrupting all thoughts.

“E-Experiment?”

“With powers, dummy,” she elaborates, voice lower.

Oh. Yeah. Those.

“I thought you kept them a secret,” you say, glancing around the diner.

“Yeah, I do. What about you?”

You blink back at her smug little face.

“I don’t have powers, Chloe,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.

“Maaaax!” Chloe falls back into the booth with an exasperated sigh. “C’mon. We at least gotta prove your hypothesis first.”

“I…” you sigh. “I guess we could do that. But how?”

“Hold that thought, Mom-alert,” Chloe interjects. You turn to see Joyce sauntering towards your booth, crockery in one hand and coffeepot in the other.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she says warmly, setting a plate of waffles down on your table.

“Yeah, love you too, Mom.”

“You need this,” Joyce says bluntly, setting a mug down in front of Chloe with a thump. “And don’t steal Max’s breakfast. Keeping a lady waitin’ is rude enough as it is,” she warns, filling it up with coffee. “This girl, Max, I swear, you’d think she didn’t know how to cook for herself with the damn tab she’s racking up...”

Chloe rolls her eyes and snatches the cup of coffee as soon as Joyce is done, then very obviously burns herself on the first sip.

You thank Joyce as Chloe pointedly stares outside the window. When Joyce is finally out of earshot, Chloe whips around again and reaches over to your plate.

“No!” you squeal, covering your breakfast with your hands.

“I’m _starving_ ,” Chloe moans, hands landing on yours.

“You kept a lady waitin’,” you repeat, and both of you cringe as soon as it leaves your mouth.

“You owe me a forkful for even saying that.”

“Fine,” you say, releasing your hands, much to Chloe’s pleasure.

“Why, thank you,” Chloe mumbles, mouth already full of waffle. She pipes up again after a few minutes. “So, as I was saying. I’m gonna take you back to junkyard. It’s less creepy during the day, I promise.”

You chew slowly.

“Okay, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“To _experiment_ ,” Chloe answers, licking maple syrup off her fingers obscenely. You break eye contact, heat rising to your cheeks, and take another bite.

“It’s the best place to practice. Lots of targets, space to run — plus, it’s cool as fuck,” she explains. “We won’t get caught, either. S’always empty. Nobody ever goes there except me and Rach—”

You look up when Chloe stops short, heart sinking when you meet her eyes. Chloe quickly looks back down.

“So, uh, yeah. Just a thought.”

“I’m down,” you reply softly. “Sounds like a good plan.”

“You’ve got time, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve got time.”

“Awesome,” Chloe says, and returns to drumming her fingers on the table. You push your plate forward till it touches her hand. She raises an eyebrow at you.

“I can’t finish this without your help.”

 

* * *

 

 

The junkyard is, as Chloe predicted, infinitely less creepy than at night, and even emptier than Max’s notes for Chemistry class. Chloe slams the truck door shut after herself, hopping out onto her feet and shaking her limbs as if she’s been driving for hours.

The sky is a little cloudy, but the space is bright and open and perfect for pictures, so you’re glad you remembered to bring your camera today. You fumble with it after leaving the truck, wiping some dust off the lens.

When you look back up again, you notice that Chloe must’ve instantly started to do… _something_ with her smoke powers. You pause, camera lowering, unable to tear your eyes away. She immediately looks more relaxed, as if just being free to use them is a relief for her.

She’s just standing, idle. Smoke twirls around her fists in tendrils, sporadically glittering with gold embers. It swirls around her ankles, too, and you think for a fleeting moment: _Phoenix_. Waiting to be burst into ashes and be reborn.

You’re totally mesmerized. Is it gonna be like this every time?

You weren’t aware of lifting your camera again, but Chloe swivels around upon seeing the flash, her smoke dissipating.

“I won’t show anyone,” you say quickly. Chloe only smiles.

“It’s cool. Just for your secret stash, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mumble, lightly shaking the polaroid. You tuck the photo away in your satchel. After a few more moments of silence, Chloe claps her hands together.

“Okay,” she says, looking around with careful consideration. And the next second, she’s gone.

Actually gone.

“I’m thinking we try replicate what happened by the lighthouse,” her voice appears from nowhere, and your eyes rapidly scan your surroundings for her. You find her on top of a car a little ways away, a string of smoke fading from behind her like a jet trail.

“The conditions won't be the exact same, but it’s our best bet,” she adds, scratching her head.

“You just—” You sputter. “What? Okay.”

“Huh?” she asks. “Oh, fuck!” she then adds, eyes widening as she laughs loudly. “Shit, I forgot I haven’t showed you that yet! Yikes. So I can kinda, like, dash pretty fast. Lookit.”

She suddenly dashes back to where she was before, disappearing completely into smoke and ashes mid run.

“What the fuck!” you exclaim, hands flying to your face. “That is so cool, how come didn’t you show me that first?”

“Ha, I dunno, sorry. I can do lots of things.” She smiles bashfully. “Not used to showing it off yet.”

You stare back at her, unable to wipe the amazed smile from your face.

“Okay! I’m distracted! It’s time to master your powers so you can be fuckin’ OP with me.” She dashes back again, leaping through the air, heading to the little brick shed you remember her mentioning yesterday.

You follow in that direction, but she’s back a moment later, a few empty beer bottles in her hands.

“I feel very human right now,” you say. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been more aware of that fact.”

Chloe tilts her head, expression unreadable, and lets out a small sigh. You look down at your feet.

Oops.

Does the fact that you’re skeptical annoy her?

“I’m tellin’ you, Max,” Chloe says. “I’m sensing something from you. Like, really sensing something.”

You look up and into her eyes again. Jesus, they’re so blue. Chloe steps a bit closer into your space, shaking her head, lip between her teeth.

“It’s something to do with having powers, being conduits, I’m sure. It’s like this… connection, like vibrations along the same wavelength. It’s invisible, but it’s there. You just need to tune into it. And when you do, it’s like, really… really… strong,” she says softly. “Can’t you feel it too?”

You realize in that moment, you do feel things. Lots of things. And you can’t identify fucking any of them.

“I, uh, don’t know,” you say lamely, voice shaking a little.

Chloe steps back, eyes trailing down to her hands.

“R-Right. Well, maybe I’m just being a crazy dumbass.” She frowns down at her bottles, as if she’s willing them to work out a plan for her. “Okay, go stand over there by that blue junker,” she says finally, pointing behind you. “We’re playing catch.”

“...Catch with glass bottles?”

“Catch with glass bottles,” she confirms.

“Sounds like I should have an ambulance ready on speed dial…”

“Who can afford ambulances?” Chloe scoffs. “Come on.”

You wander over to where she leads you, then turn around to face her.

“‘Kay. I’m gonna throw these at you. Not all at once, so don’t panic. And, uh, try stop them. Without your hands.”

“What?” you start to ask, but the first bottle is already flying through the air. You dodge it, and it breaks upon hitting the car behind you.

“Well, that was a fail.”

“I wasn’t ready!” you shout in disbelief. “Try slower, Speedy Gonzales.”

“Fine. I am lifting the bottle, using my arm, slowly. I am throwing it, through the air, at a velocity of approximately—”

“ _Chloe_.”

“Okay! Focus!” she shouts, then tosses the bottle in your direction. You stare hard at it, not really sure what else to do, but having a better feeling about it this time. It’s rapidly approaching the ground, so you throw your arm out last minute, and—

Nothing happens. It thuds against the dirt.

You groan.

“How do I do this?” you whine.

“Just breathe,” Chloe says, grabbing the last bottle. “Stay calm, pay attention. We’ve got time.”

She throws the last bottle, and you try your hardest to do as Chloe says, but it doesn’t work. You feel even more hopeless than when you began.

“Okay, this doesn’t mean anything,” Chloe says. “I couldn’t work out how to do my smoke shit again for a little while.”

“For how long?” you ask.

“Uh, couple hours after I woke up again.”

You shake your head. It’s been nearly twenty four hours for you.

“I don’t think this is gonna happen.”

“Sure it is, Max. Don’t give up yet. This is _way_ too cool a possibility to let lack of confidence shit all over,” Chloe says wisely, patting your back.

She starts walking back across the junkyard with purpose, lifting random parts of junk as she goes, and you kick at the dirt underfoot.

You feel super inadequate, and almost wish Chloe would just drop this whole thing to save you the embarrassment.

“Come on, slowpoke,” she calls. You exhale, trying to shake off your fears, then follow.

Chloe dashes up and onto the roof of an old school bus, then rests her hands on her hips. You look up, squinting against the sun.

It wouldn’t surprise you if you rode on that exact bus as a kid. So many things from your old life in Arcadia Bay have just… withered and decayed. The junkyard’s kinda like a museum dedicated to the concept.

“Oh no, hippie. We ain’t done yet, put that camera back,” Chloe warns.

“One snap,” you say, smiling. Chloe doesn’t complain, so you go ahead and take the shot of her towering above all of Arcadia’s waste.

“Looks nice…”

“What an admirer you are, Caulfield!”

“Oh, you thought you were in that picture?” you tease. “You didn’t show up at all! Guess you’re basically a vampire now you have powers.”

“Nice try, Max, but I _already know_ you’re stashing my pics.”

You laugh back at her, feeling warm from more than just the sun on your back.

You set your satchel down on the ground after, preparing for whatever Chloe’s going to have you do next.

“I don’t think I can climb up there,” you say, eyeing the structure warily.

“Okay, well, _I_ think you could, but I wasn’t gonna ask that anyways. Basically, I think there’s a higher chance of this working if I throw some shit from a higher elevation. ‘Cause that’s what happened with the lighthouse trash, right? It fell from above.”

“I… guess,” you offer, nodding.

“Sweet. Now, if it gets too close, just, uh. Run away and hide. You’ll be good at that.”

If she’s referencing what you think she might be referencing, then ouch. But Chloe’s still seeming upbeat, so maybe it was unintentional.

“Bombs away,” she says, and hurls an old wooden box over the edge. It tips upside down mid flight and starts raining plastic missiles; old toy cars and dolls and ABC blocks. You turn away, yelping.

“Oops!” Chloe shouts, peering over. “Some poor kid’s childhood’s ruined. Know how ya feel, buddy.”

“Jeez.”

“Here, this seems sturdier,” Chloe says, tossing over some old broken curtain pole. You try and stop it, but trying to avoid getting impaled ends up being your primary focus.

After failing to prevent it from crashing to the ground, you brush off your shoulders and tilt your head disapprovingly, tapping it with your foot.

“That’s not how you work a lightsaber, Chlo!”

“Oh, really?” Chloe laughs. “Damn. Baby-me musta been too busy making eyes at Princess Leia.”

Your brain on autopilot simply acknowledges Chloe’s statement as understandable. Then you pause, processing the implications of what that actually—

“Heads up!” Chloe shouts abruptly, and drops a basketball from above.

“ _Aaah!_ ”

The ball falls like a meteor. You dodge it, luckily, as it bounces off of the dirt and rolls away.

“How was I supposed to even— You’re going way too fast, Chloe!”

“Max,” Chloe says very seriously. You frown up at her, crossing your arms petulantly. She clears her throat. “You gotta get’cha head in the game.”

“Oh my God. I’m so done with you,” you respond, grumbling while Chloe nearly doubles over laughing.

“You’re so easy,” she wheezes. You automatically reach for the basketball and tuck it under your arm, plotting your revenge.

You turn to face her again, ball behind your back, and check to see if she’s watching. Unluckily, you meet her cocky grin.

“Try all you like. My reflexes are bomb. I’ll just catch it.”

“Hm.”

You look off to the side, watching a flock of birds circle nearby, the sky a lilac backdrop. The powerlines sway in the breeze, and the lighthouse in the distance is sheltered by a hazy mist.

“What if I were to just…” you mumble, feigning distraction. Your look of perplexion eventually catches Chloe’s curiosity, and she looks off to the sky as well, frowning.

“Catch you off guard!” you shout, quickly launching the ball in her direction.

“Oh, shit!” she shouts, but miraculously leaps forward in just enough time to catch the ball. You giggle as Chloe wobbles on her feet, grasping the basketball tightly to her chest.

“Oof, good tactics, but not good enough,” she says, breathless.

She tosses the ball back to you, and you catch it, and you’re not sure how it got to this, but then you’re both just… playing catch with a basketball in a junkyard.

“You really think we can figure this stuff out?” you ask quietly after a while. Chloe doesn’t respond at first, just throws the ball back to you.

“You mean your powers? ‘Cause, yeah, I do.”

“Possible powers,” you mumble, catching the ball again.

“Yeah, whatever. Honestly, that’s kinda the least of our worries,” Chloe says. “I think the more pressing matters are whatever the fuck is going on in Arcadia Bay.”

You nod, tossing the ball back.

“And what the fuck’s going on with Rachel,” Chloe continues, eyes going dark. “And the fucking Prescotts.”

You pause, holding the ball still.

“Yeah, what’s up with them? And what was up with that whole Nathan in the bathroom thing?”

“Gimme the ball,” Chloe responds, and you oblige. She sits down cross-legged after she catches it.

“I know the Prescotts have something to do with Rachel. But I don’t have anything to prove it,” she says, holding the ball close. “‘Cause of course it was just the fuckin’ Rachel voice in my head tellin’ me about them.”

“...What did she say?”

“Just said the word ‘Prescott’. Hardly credible. I mean, I know my step-dick is hella suspicious of them too, but it’s not like I was gonna talk to him about it. So I… ugh, this was so stupid,” she mutters, looking up to the sky. “I met Nathan one night in some shitty dive bar that didn’t card me, and I pretended to suck up his ass like the other Vortex freaks do. Then when he bought it, I cornered him, trying to work out what Rachel was to him. And he was just a total creepy _asswipe_ to me, saying all this weird bullshit about Rach. I fucking knew he had something to do with it, even if it was just ‘cause he made my skin crawl. Anyway, I was getting too drunk and angry, so I had to book it out of there. But… I knew I had to confront him again if I wanted to get anywhere with finding Rachel.”

“Jesus, Chloe,” you say, eyes wide. “That sounds so awful. I’m sorry.”

“Coulda been worse,” she says, shrugging. “Anyway. We’ll figure it out as a team.”

She lets go of the ball again, lobbing it towards you, then rises to her feet. It flies past you, so you wander over to where it’s rolling, then put your foot down to bring it to a halt.

“We leaving here now?” you ask with a yawn, reaching down to grab the ball. “We do have mysteries to solve…”

“Sure. We can go back to—”

“Shit, sorry!” you gasp after sending the ball flying back at her. You and your short-term memory already forgot that Chloe was getting up and approaching the edge of the bus.

Before you can do anything, it whacks her in the neck, and she stumbles sidewards in shock. Her foot searches for solid ground, and finds air instead. You leap forward straight away, even though you know you won’t be able to catch her — it’s a short fall, but she’ll still crush you.

But you just don’t have time _._ You’re so damn clumsy. If only you had _time—_

And time—

Time stands still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so eager to post this I forgot to post a note. firstly, thank you to Terran for proofreading. secondly, thank you to everyone who left nice comments recently. I can’t do this without you guys, so please know how much I appreciate comments and kudos. ok. peace out!!


End file.
